


Lingering

by Musyc



Category: Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Friedrick Thiessen - character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He inhales, letting the perfume of the circus fill him, until he feels as though he is made of that scent. Until every breath, every pulse of blood, is made of the smells of powder and paint, the canvas of the tents, the fur of the cats, of cider, popcorn, and roasted nuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingering

The statue is spinning. The crowds pass her by, some with a glance and some with a stare, but no one stops to watch her. Not tonight. The wind is blowing hard, snapping at the canvas of the tents, making the white and black stripes undulate in disquieting, nauseating patterns. Even the _rêveurs_ are hurrying through the circus, red scarves fluttering in the wind as they clutch cups of cider, the white steam floating behind them. They disappear into the tents, rushing to find a seat in the warmth where the acrobats whirl above or the cats roar and dance.

Friedrick does not rush or hurry. He does not move. He lingers in the shadow of a vendor's cart, the smell of sugar and caramel wrapping around him like a thick blanket in the middle of December. He inhales, letting the perfume of the circus fill him, until he feels as though he is made of that scent. Until every breath, every pulse of blood, is made of the smells of powder and paint, the canvas of the tents, the fur of the cats, of cider, popcorn, and roasted nuts. He has made the clock that ticks at the entrance and counts the minutes to sunset, has made clocks for the _rêveurs_ and for the performers. The tick of the clocks are the ticks of his heart. He is a _rêveur_ , someone who dreams of the circus, who has let it fill him, sink into his bones until sometimes he wakes and is surprised that his skin is not striped in black and white like the tents, marked by the love he has for the place and all it represents.

He takes a slow drink from his cup of cider, the heat soaking through his glove, and watches the statue. She has been spinning for an hour, increment by increment, her movements too slow, too small to be measured, much less seen. When he started watching, her eyes were focused over his left shoulder. Now she is looking at his cheekbone, and as he watches, ever so slowly, she smiles.


End file.
